And here it must be noted that when I say that you don’t find verbs in itare used with any continuative meaning, I mean to exclude those whose formation coincides with that of the continuatives, like habitare [to inhabit], domitare [to tame], etc., which are quite often found with a definitely continuative meaning. In these especially, and more than in any other verb, you find the continuative meaning mixed up with the frequentative and diminutive. Which strongly confirms my argument, because, [2192] seeing that the other verbs in itare never have a continuative meaning, and these do, and so they coincide with the form that I call continuative, we may conclude that this form is truly continuative. And, seeing that the continuative and the frequentative or diminutive meaning is more mixed up in these verbs than in any others, through an accidental and material combination of form, we may conclude that these two forms in themselves are evidently distinct in meaning, and that the form in itare is frequentative or diminutive, the one in simple are continuative, since the verbs that by chance contain both forms contain both meanings, and the other verbs do not. (29 Nov., day of my Grandmother’s death, 1821.)1 See p. 2285.
For p. 1154, margin. Sonitare [to make a noise]: I am not sure if it comes from sonatus or from sonitus, the participle of sonare [to sound]. That the verb sonare at first had [2193] in effect this participle (or supine) sonitus, although it was unknown to the good writers (in fact to all), is plainly indicated, first, by the verbal noun sonitus us or i [sound], following what I said pp. 2146ff. (in Spanish sonido), and second, by the preterite sonui (rarely SONAVI, says Forcellini), and by seeing that the verb sono was formerly of the third and perhaps even the fourth conjugation. See Forcellini, Sono, at the end. For these reasons, I am persuaded that sonitare certainly comes from sonitus and belongs to those verbs about which pp. 1112, after the middle–1113. These observations can likewise perhaps also be applied to sonitus, crepitus (similarly, crepitus us is found), rogitus, and to the verbs domitare, etc., about which p. 1154. And maybe they can extend to all such verbs that appear to be formed from a participle in atus, which changed during its formation to itus? (29 Nov. 1821.) Restitare comes from either restatus or restitus (participles or supines, both obsolete) or perhaps it is a metathesis of resistere [to stay behind, to resist], but I don’t think so, etc. Moreover, sto has statum and status us, persto perstatum, etc., consto atum.
[2194] For p. 1109, margin, second line. Contraction, as in Italian from porrectus, porto, the participle of porgere [to offer], which is a contraction of porrigere, and this porto is in place of porretto. So therefore in Spanish despertar [to awake] instead of desperrectar, from a desperto instead of desperrecto, etc. In fact, you find in Spanish the very participle from which despertar is derived, that is, despierto (sveglio, vigile [awake, vigilant]), which is the same as experrectus. (29 Nov. 1821.)
For p. 1115. Thus, from usus—the participle of uti [to use], from which good Latin has usitari, usitatus, usitate, frequentative verb, noun, adverb—the modern languages have preserved not only the Spanish frequentative usitar and our usitato, etc., and the French usité but also the continuative usare, user, etc., a true continuative not only in form but also in meaning, and therefore, as I’ve said elsewhere [→Z 1109, 2019], we can believe that it is at least from colloquial ancient Latin. See the Glossary under Usare. Thus we have abusare, etc. Uti is less continuous than usare or usari. People also said uto is. Forcellini utor, at the end. (29 Nov. 1821.)
[2195] For p. 1127, before the middle. I’ve noted other examples of this elsewhere [→Z 983, 1127], others can be seen in the Encyclopédie. Grammaire, I don’t remember in which article, but I think “H,” taken from Priscian, others p. 1276 and in the margin there. To all of which add sulcus [furrow] made from ὁλκός (tractus) [a dragging], which, however, must have originally been pronounced solcus, like volgus, volpes, like solpur for sulphur, as Pontedera claims,1 and perhaps, contrarily, like supnus or sumnus, etc. This etymology of sulcus from ὁλκός is recognized by Forcellini. See him at the beginning of Sulcus. See also sisto, pp. 2143, end, ff.
I observe that those Greek nouns which moving into Latin changed the breathing to s (like those which changed it to h, and in their case it’s natural, because they became Latin more recently) preserve in Latin the properties and almost the entire form that they have in Greek, e.g., the masculine or neuter gender, etc. Not so those which changed the breathing to v, [2196] which changed gender, form, etc., in such a way that they are scarcely recognized, or certainly with greater difficulty. I said nouns, and I mean words of every type. That leads us to believe (1) that the pronunciation of v or f in place of the breathing is older than the s, and so those words became proper Latin earlier, (2) or that they perhaps came from Aeolic, and in that dialect had a form different from the common Greek, (3) or that in reality they went from Latin to Greek, or rather (and this is very likely) are among those primitive words common to both languages and derived from the common mother, which confirms the theory of the fraternity of Greek and Latin. We should note, however, that what changes in Latin into s (or h) is the rough breathing and into v (or perhaps sometimes into f) the smooth. Hence we might also conclude that the use of the rough breathing in Greek words, although very ancient, is, however, more recent than the use of the smooth. That the Greek use [2197] (and hence also the Latin) of the σ for the breathing is more recent than that of the H, becoming in Latin v, or of the digamma “ϝ”, etc. That perhaps those Greek words written today with the rough breathing, which in Latin have a v, were formerly written or pronounced with the smooth (like ῾Εστία, etc.), or that they passed to the Aeolians like that, etc.
See also (concerning the rough breathing changed to s) Forcellini under Sollus, Sollicitare, beginning; Solitaurilia, beginning; Solidus, beginning. (30 Nov. 1821.)
Solitas is an ancient Latin word, Forcellini says, and means solitude. Now here it is still very alive in the Spanish soledad, with the same meaning. See if the Glossary has anything. (30 Nov. 1821.)
What I have said elsewhere about the language of Bartoli [→Z 1313–15] shows how well our language lends itself to originality of style and of individual styles, in all genres, and to the full extent of the term. The French language strictly forbids originality [2198] in the style, etc., of the individual, except when it is minimal, which to the French appears a great thing, as in the language of Bossuet. But a small difference is large in a nation, in a literature, in a language that is accustomed and necessarily conducive to uniformity, and can be altered only a tiny bit without being ostentatious, and going beyond the limits of the permissible. Whereas in the Italian language the individual writer can be the same as others and different if he wants. In fact he can be completely other, and new, and original, and still be and appear Italian, and very Italian, and outstanding in the language. Everyone with the Italian language can set his course, one that is quite new, his own, untried, and make his fellow citizens marvel at speaking a language that can be expressed so differently, and in ways they had never thought of, [2199] although they understand it very well, however new it may be. (30 Nov. 1821.)
For p. 1154, margin. As for mussitare [to be silent, to mutter], however, I think it comes not from mussatus but from mussus, or even if it comes from mussare [to mutter], I think this is not the original verb but the continuative from mussus. Which I consider an old participle of mutire or muttire, a verb used by the ancient writers (as from concutio we get concussus, from sentire sensus, and not sentitus, concutitus, etc. etc). Although in Terence one finds (not, however, without controversy) the participle mutitus.1 Forcellini himself derives mussare from mutire. See him on Musso, Mutio, Mutitus. As for mussitare, however, he usually calls it the frequentative of mussare, but I think it’s the direct frequentative of mutire. It could also be the opposite, however, since mutire is a verb almost unused among Latin writers of the classical age, according to what I said p. 1201, after the middle. (30 Nov. 1821.)
For p. 2052. Lapsare [to slide] from lapsus,
[2200] the participle of labi [to slip] (certainly to slide is a more continuous action than to slip, and although labi also has, in many instances, a meaning analogous to to slide, nonetheless lapsare means more in this sense, etc.). (30 Nov. 1821.)
For p. 1121, margin, end. Perhaps sentire [to feel] had an ancient participle sentitus (very regular) in place of sensus (anomalous). The latter, in fact, comes from sensi [I felt] (anomalous), why not then the former from sentii (regular, like audii [I heard])? Forcellini, however, does not recognize the past tense sentii. (30 Nov. 1821.)
For p. 1167, end. The verb quaeritare [to seek earnestly] (and the compound requiritare [to seek again]) may make us wonder if, and induce us to believe that this is at least one exception to my rule that continuatives, and frequentatives in itare, are formed only from the participles in us of the original verbs. Not at all. This example, instead of destroying or weakening the rule, will, by means of the rule, [2201] be justified and clarified, and also will no longer seem anomalous.
I say that quaeritare comes from an ancient quaeritus, from quaerere [to seek]. (1) This is regular, like tritus, from terere, which is a contraction of teritus, etc., whereas quaesitus is irregular. Like quaesivi, or quaesii, in place of quaerivi, or quaerii, or quaeri.
(2) With the Spanish querer [to want, to desire], which, although it has a different meaning (because of the distance in time, and the variety of dialects into which Latin split as it spread), is nevertheless the pure and genuine quaerere, you find the participle querido, that is, quaeritus. Note that you will also find there, from quisè (that is, quaesivi, or quaesii), the anomalous participle quisto (quisto bien or mal)—that is, quaestus, or quaesitus—for although one does not find the participle quaestus, one does find the verbal noun quaestus us (and see p. 2146), along with quaestor, and quaestura, etc., all contractions [2202] of quaesitus us, quaesitor, quaesitura, etc., words that are likewise spoken.1 From quisto the Spanish also have malquisto (like malquerido from querido [dear]), that is, disliked, and hence malquistar (male quaesitare), that is, to make hateful (Solís)—a figurative and metaphoric meaning, or at least not original.
(3) Note that quaeritare is an ancient verb. Forcellini has examples only from Plautus and Terence. Hence perhaps it, too, was of the people, which, as an eternal preserver of the ancient, would from quaero have made not quaesito but quaerito, from the old quaeritus, which it may likewise have preserved, as today it is preserved in Spanish.
(4) Although Forcellini makes two verbs of quaero and quaeso, and gives the perfect sivi, and sii to the first, with the supine situm, and to the second gives the same perfects but denies the supine, nonetheless it’s clear that, like the aforementioned perfects, the supine and the participle are, in truth, not from quaero but from quaeso. This quaeso, Forcellini says, is *“the same as quaero; in the same way they said arbosem, casmen, valesii, asa, etc., for arborem, carmen, valerii, [2203] ara, etc.”* Therefore, if quaeso is a corruption of quaero, quaesitus is merely a corruption of quaeritus; the former is, therefore, the participle of quaeso (that is, of a verb corrupted from quaero), and the latter, that is, quaeritus, is the proper participle of quaero; therefore quaeritare is the same as saying quaesitare, and is no longer an impediment to my rule; it is formed exactly according to it, like any other continuative or frequentative (that can by its form be one and the other); and it is regular, like venditare from vendere [to sell]. Therefore, rather than showing a flaw in or exception to my rule, this, in fact, helps us understand and determine the true nature, the true origin and formation of an ancient (and perhaps vernacular) verb, and the ancient and proper participle of quaerere, that is, quaeritus, which is demonstrated by quaeritare, according to my rule.
I argue likewise in the case of queritari from queror [to complain], [2204] whose only known participle, questus, is merely a syncope of the unknown quesitus, which was only a corruption of the similarly unattested queritus. (1 Dec. 1821.)
The last chapter of Xenophon’s Κυνηγετικὸς [On Hunting]1 is worth reading, where he inveighs against the Sophists, shows the usefulness and necessity of vigorous physical habits and exercise, says in particular that one should follow nature above all (§ 4), etc. See also the preceding chapter, which contains a beautiful celebration of hunting, a natural and primitive occupation that is truly worthwhile for man, and conducive to natural happiness. (1 Dec. 1821.)
Like self-love, hatred toward others, which is its inseparable consequence, or companion, can be hidden, or concealed under infinite guises, but never lost or diminished in any individual of the animal race, nor can it be greater or less [2205] in this individual than in that. Except inasmuch as self-love can be greater or less: not that the individual doesn’t love himself as much as he can, but regarding the intensity, and the greater or lesser force of passion and feeling that nature has given different individuals and animal species, and which habituation has preserved, or increased or diminished. From this point of view, self-love—the degree, the force, the mass of it—can be greater or less according to individuals and species, and hence so can hatred toward others. Hatred can also be greater or less in the same individual according to different ages, successive customs, and accidental, daily, momentary circumstances, physical as well as moral. It can likewise be greater or less in a single species generally, in its various moral and physical stages, circumstances, etc. [2206] E.g., toward one’s own kind natural hatred can sometimes be greater, sometimes less, than toward other animals, etc. (1 Dec. 1821.)
Fear, the passion that is the immediate daughter of self-love and its very preservation, and hence inseparable from man, but that is above all manifested in and characteristic of primitive man, children, and those who preserve more of the natural state; a passion that is strictly common to man and every species of animal, and a general characteristic of living creatures: such a passion is the most egoistic in the world. In fear, man is completely isolated, separates himself from those dearest to him, and suffers very little (indeed, almost by natural necessity is led to it) in sacrificing them, etc., to save himself. Man when he is afraid separates himself not only from the persons—or from all that is in any sense another’s—but from the very things of his own that are most precious, most essential, [2207] like the sailor who throws into the sea the fruit of his long labors, and of his whole life, his means of subsistence. Whence one can say that fear is the height and purest quintessence of egoism, because it causes man not only to care solely for his own things but also to detach himself from those in order to care only for the pure and bare self, or rather the barest existence of his own individual self separated from any other possible existence. In fear, man sacrifices even parts of himself to save his life; to that, and to what alone is absolutely necessary at any moment, man’s concern and passion are reduced and shrunk when he is afraid. One might say that the self then becomes as small and constricted as it can, in order to preserve itself, and man consents to throw out all the parts of himself that are not necessary, to save that which is [2208] inseparable from his being, which forms him, and in which he necessarily and in substance consists.
The egoism of fear pushed the Americans (and other ancients, especially in great disasters, etc., or other barbarian peoples) to sacrifice human victims to their Gods, who were truly created out of fear (“primos in orbe deos fecit timor” [“fear made the first gods in the world”]) and for no other reason were represented and worshipped by them under the most monstrous and frightening forms. Thus, since their fear was habitual, the above-mentioned effect of the extreme egoism of this passion must have been usual among them and among those who were or are in similar circumstances. (1 Dec. 1821.)
I have said [→Z 1648‒49, 2039‒41, 2107ff.] that the man of deep feeling is liable to become indifferent more quickly than others, as much in misfortunes as in other things. That means that he forms the habit in regard to misfortunes (and you can say the same about the rest) [2209] more easily and readily than others. And for two reasons. (1) Becau
se the more he suffers, being more sensitive, the more quickly the means of habituation, which are the exercise and repetition of sensations, since they are greater in him than in others, bring it about. Furthermore, he feels misfortunes more keenly, and hence is subject to greater misfortunes, both in number and in degree of strength, etc. (2) Because in himself and independently of circumstances he also becomes habituated more easily than others. (Especially in these types of things.) Hence he learns about misfortune more quickly than others, as men of talent (who for the most part are also men of feeling) learn disciplines, or that to which they are inclined, etc., more quickly than others, and understand and perceive, etc., more quickly and easily because they are more attentive, etc. And so men of little or average feeling, and average minds in general, after a number or mass of misfortunes—much greater than what was sufficient to habituate and [2210] make imperturbable the man of deep feeling—are still not habituated, are always open to affliction and grief, always sensitive to hurt, always equally tender and soft (although the man who was much softer is already completely hardened), and often remain that way for their whole life, nearly as susceptible to suffering in feeble old age as in their early youth. Indeed more, because they are less distracted in their feelings, and get less help from their natural strength. Whereas in the man of feeling, the very ability not to get distracted, the keen attention to sensations, helps him become habituated, and achieve indifference, and the capacity not to pay attention to them anymore. (1 Dec. 1821.)
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